His Bella
by L. Harris
Summary: Bellatrix pledges herself to the service of the Dark Lord. This concept has been mulling around in my mind for some time now, and ended up poring out over a three hour span. Be open to symbolism! A First War-era fic.
1. Chapter 1

"What do you mean by coming here, woman?"

Bellatrix's features contorted in disgust, but if the hooded man standing in the doorway could discern her contempt, he made no sign of repentance.

"I would have thought it quite obvious, _Runcorn_," she leered, her fingers twitching instinctively for the wand holstered at her side. The man before her merely smiled, the tip of his own wand drooping so that it no longer held her in its line of fire. That he considered her unworthy of even this most basic precaution smarted, and she took no pains to hide the fury that flushed her cheeks.

"I wish to speak to the Dark Lord," Bellatrix said, ignoring the amused snort issued from beneath the black hood.

"Has he sent for you?" Runcorn's deep voice inflected in mock surprise, and for a moment Bellatrix hesitated.

"He will see me," she responded finally, her knuckles whitening around the carved wand's grip.

The tall, dark Death Eater paused and considered the slight, black-haired woman; she was very much like her sister, fine-figured and attractive, but where Narcissa tempted with coy smiles and coquetry Bellatrix excited with smoldering intensity and single-minded veracity.

Shrugging, Runcorn stepped aside and replaced his wand inside his cloak. "Don't think your man Rodolphus will be able to keep you safe from His wrath. Your family name holds no sway here, Bella," he sneered.

A sharp intake of breath was all the warning Runcorn had before he found himself flat on his back, the taste of blood in his mouth and the outline of a woman shaking with rage standing over him.

"Never," Bellatrix hissed, her voice dangerously low as she bent over the fallen Death Eater, her wand pressed hard into his temple, "call me 'Bella' or I swear, it will be the last thing you do."

The hem of her robes whipped over Runcorn's prone form as she spun on her heels and left him alone in the corridor, cursing under his breath as he tried to imagine the worst sort of torture the Dark Lord would use on this most insolent of witches.


	2. Chapter 2

For all her resolve, Bellatrix found herself struggling to make it past the threshold. The vast chamber within was lit by only a handful of torches, most of these concentrated at the end of the room where a large, high-backed chair was positioned on a dais. Twenty men in black robes flanked the platform, but the most striking figure was that of the man in the chair, the eerie sheen of pale flesh beneath his black robes and the unmistakable red glow where eyes should have been rooting her to the spot and leaving her gasping for breath.

Forcing her feet to move, Bellatrix crossed into the torchlight and subjected herself to the force of the reclining man's stare. All around her male voices murmured with displeasure, and though she could not see their faces, she felt sure that each one was looking down at her with the same, smug grin.

Silence threatened to suffocate her and the weight of her chin against her chest as she knelt before the dais in submission was almost too much to bear. That the Dark Lord could punish, even kill, her for her insolence was foremost on her mind, but it occurred to her in that moment that it would be better to die at the hands of this greatest of wizards than to live a life of mediocrity, and the thought sustained her.

"Bellatrix Black." The cold, high voice of the Dark Lord as it spoke her name sent waves of simultaneous fear and pleasure flooding over Bellatrix's prostrate form. Each syllable came alive in the speaking, and she dared to hope that the smallest hint of interest intoned in that voice was meant as an encouragement.

"Your time at Hogwarts has served you well," the Dark Lord observed, and Bellatrix could feel the searing heat of his gaze as it sought to meet hers. "Top of your class, unless I am mistaken? Perfect scores on your NEWTS. A knack for transfiguration." A pause, and in the silence Bellatrix was sure that the very essence of her being was being laid bare for the Master's perusal.

"A real asset to the house of Salazar Slytherin," he concluded at length, and in the elation that followed Bellatrix found her voice.

"My Lord is too kind," she rasped, her own voice small and muted by the thick walls, swallowed up by the high, cavernous ceiling. Instantly ashamed, she raised her eyes to meet the approval or rebuke that must lie in the Dark Lord's face and was suddenly held transfixed by the power of his stare.

"You do not come here lightly, Bellatrix," the Dark Lord murmured, his mouth tilting into a one-sided smile as the handsome, young face drained of color. "What would you have of me? The Dark Lord is listening."

Wetting her lips, Bellatrix forced herself to stand. All around her the oppressive presence of the Dark Lord's male followers was evident.

"My Lord knows that I am given over to his cause," she began, bracing herself for what was to come. "He knows my intentions, and now that I have come of age, He must know that I desire nothing more than to pledge myself to Him in allegiance."

A bemused grunt to her right drew her gaze, and through the shadow cast by his hood Bellatrix could make out the pocked face of Walden Macnair leering at her with unbridled mirth. Outnumbered, Bellatrix forced her hand to remain at her side, but as she turned back to the dais her dark eyes slid over the familiar features of Rodolphus Lestrange, unnaturally handsome even in this wan dungeon.

The tense moment in which their eyes met was not lost on Voldemort. The moment her gaze returned to his, the cold glint of malice that brooded in her wilfull stare melted and he was almost given over to laughter at the look of total vulnerability he commanded.

"The Dark Lord welcomes to his side all those of pure blood who are willing," he said. "But has your husband given you his blessing? Is it upon his request that you are here tonight?"

On all sides the jeering laughs of the Death Eaters echoed in the stunned witch's ears, and the glint of teeth bared in malicious grins shone from out of the darkness. Bellatrix staggered as though she had been physically struck, and before she could give them a second thought, the words poured from her lips without remorse: "Not my husband yet, my Lord."

"But very soon to be. I understand that your engagement has been quite finalized."

"I need no _man's_ permission," Bellatrix spat, her mind reeling as this unexpected reminder of the arrangement between the Blacks and the Lestranges hit her with all the force of a battering ram. As the implication of her words dawned on her, she scrambled to make amends and found herself on her knees once more, half-prostrate at the feet of the great throne.

"My husband and I will serve you faithfully to the end of days, my lord. You will have no more devoted followers than we two, united in our devotion to achieving your ends."

Voldemort raised a pale hand and at once he held the attention of the entire room. Standing, he stared down at the ridiculously recumbent woman and, in a gesture that drew shocked exclamations of horror from his Death Eaters, knelt in front of her and lowered his face so close to hers that he could make out each separate strand of ebon hair.

"You know the oath," he whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

Drawing herself up by the strength of her forearms, Bellatrix looked straight into the unmoving eyes of her dark master and spoke from memory the words that she had painstakingly memorized, infused now with a passion that threatened to unnerve her at each new phrase.

"I pledge myself to the Dark Lord, to see his will and his will alone done regardless of the cost. His desires are mine, and for their achievement I will ever strive. My wand is his to command; my death alone will release me from his service."

Breathless, she bowed her head and awaited dismissal. As Voldemort rose to tower over her once more, she felt a momentary pang of fear and in her mind she pored over the last few moments, desperate to discover a flaw in her oath that might taint the Dark Lord's impression of her devotion.

Voldemort felt the displeasure of his followers and heard, without aid of Occlumency, the echoes of indignation repeated in each man's mind. To the thoughts of Rodolphus he turned, but _his_ mind was oddly silent save for what must have been the beginnings of a grudging respect for his future bride.

"Stand, Bellatrix," Voldemort said, his voice suddenly resonant in this vast space. His Death Eaters looked to one another with inquiring glances, but as Bellatrix straightened his face was all she could see.

"Your arm," he commanded, his voice soft as he reached for her wrist and drew his wand from his cloak. The stunned silence that pervaded the room as his followers realized what was to come was satisfying, and he did not wait for Bellatrix to fully raise her left arm before grabbing it and throwing back the full sleeve to expose the bare, pale skin beneath.

Placing the tip of his wand against her flesh, Voldemort unleashed the fullness of his gaze on the bewildered witch, and as his will stripped away the barricades of her mind he felt an unbridled hunger screaming to be sated. He held her captivated in his unblinking stare as he pressed his wand roughly against her fore-arm and murmured words too quiet to be perceived.

All at once Bellatrix knew a pain unlike any she had ever known. Bursting forth from the end of Voldemort's wand, the crippling agony of hot lead in her veins spread throughout her body and left in its wake a numbness just as sudden that left her breathless and unsteady. The Dark Lord's grip on her wrist was all that kept her upright.

Twenty pairs of eyes looked to the spot where Voldemort's wand had pressed against Bellatrix's arm. Against a backdrop of alabaster, the black form of a snake weaving its way through the mouth of a skull stood out like a sentinel, the long body of the serpent writhing as spasms ravaged the young witch's body. The Dark Lord smiled inwardly at the finality this act marked in the minds of his Death Eaters, and knew that even now they were acclimating themselves to the impossibility of a woman in their ranks.

Bellatrix's eyelids fluttered as she tried to make sense of her surroundings, her countenance clearing as though she were being released from a heavy trance. Dragging her right hand through her hair, she struggled for words that would not come and as she sank to the ground to kneel before her master, she was astonished to feel his restraining grip on her wrist forcing her to remain on her feet.

"Come, Bella," Voldemort said, leading her across the dais, "and sit by my side." With a swipe of his wand he sent a lanky, greasy-haired wizard crouching nearest to the center of the dais yelping in pain. To this vacant spot to the right of the throne he led her, and as he settled into the chair he knew that her eyes never ceased in following his every move.

As the Death Eaters reported to their lord, news of Mudbloods and of Ministry breaches, Bellatrix tried to make sense of the change that had altered the very core of her being. Slumped against the side of the throne she endeavored for clarity, all the while thinking to herself how wonderful it could be to forever stay His "Bella."


End file.
